


Proverbs

by theDeadTree



Series: GreedFall Oneshots & Scene Collections [5]
Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25000981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDeadTree/pseuds/theDeadTree
Summary: It had been almost twenty years since they’d last met, and so many things had changed. The person standing before him perhaps most of all.
Series: GreedFall Oneshots & Scene Collections [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1505774
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, Petrus is probably my favourite character in the entire game, and I've been meaning to write scenes with him for ages. He's kind of hard for me to nail down, but I'm not about to let that stop me.
> 
> So here's me, being self-indulgent with more loosely connected scenes.

“Young man?”

At his call, the man in question stopped in his tracks, remaining perfectly still for a brief moment before ultimately turning on his heels, swivelling around to face him, one eyebrow arched curiously. Petrus waited, not entirely sure what to expect. A Congregation dignitary, certainly; though perhaps not one so young. For a moment, he was left to wonder if the entirety of the Congregation’s colony on the island was little more than an experiment in order to test its children.

And then he spotted it – an odd patch of mottled green that crawled across the young man’s cheek and down his neck, peeking out from beneath what was a valiant attempt at a beard by someone who was perhaps not quite able to grow one.

Immediately, Petrus froze.

_No._

It was all too familiar; a little horrifyingly so. Even after all this time, he would still recognise it. Her face, it seemed, had been burned permanently into his mind. He just couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe he was seeing it again, on someone else entirely.

He’d met this boy before, what felt like an eternity ago. Of course, he really _had_ been a boy back then. Now… how old would he be now? Mid-twenties? Such a far cry from the painfully shy child he’d once known. His features, now that they’d lost their boyish roundness, had become eerily similar to hers.

It was almost more than Petrus could bear, in that moment.

“Pardon me,” he continued smoothly, careful to keep his feelings as far from his tone as he was able, “but are you not part of the new governor’s entourage?”

There was a flicker of recognition in the young man’s face, the corners of his lips twitching just slightly before ultimately replaced by the same carefully impassive expression that had been there before.

“I’m his cousin,” he answered stiffly – his tone even verging on overly formal – eyes narrowing a little suspiciously. “And I’m accompanying him on his mission to Teer Fradee. What can I do for you, father?”

And there it was.

Almost immediately, Petrus felt his mouth run dry, suddenly finding himself lost for words as those hauntingly familiar eyes studied him carefully. The lad clearly didn’t recognise him, though Petrus could hardly blame him for that. It had been almost twenty years since they’d last met, and so many things had changed. The person standing before him perhaps most of all.

Petrus had never liked to dwell on the past, on things he could never change. He’d accepted long ago that there was frequently nothing to do but move forward, to go on with his life rather than waste away pining for what he couldn’t have. Or at least, that was how he liked to see it. Sometimes, it felt more like he was running from his mistakes, out of the constant fear that they would come back to bite him.

It was now beginning to occur to him that this was one of those times.

Seeing him here, now, like this… looking so excruciatingly similar to her… it all suddenly came back to the forefront. Everything he’d done, every stupid decision he’d made, it was all there, all written in that young man’s face so plainly there was nothing Petrus could do to escape it.

She had always found a way to haunt him, ever since he failed her. One way or another, she would always be there, a stark reminder of every bad decision he’d ever made. Petrus could still see her so clearly in his mind – bleeding knuckles as she clutched at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, lips cracked and splitting. Her quiet, hoarse voice as she begged and pleaded for mercy. Her fearful and desperate screams as he walked away without looking back.

And now her ghost was staring him in the face, this time in the form of her son.

He didn’t know how long he’d been staring, but it must’ve been an uncomfortable amount, since the young man’s – _Adélard,_ he suddenly found himself remembering – brow quickly creased and he turned his head away, his hand flying up to cover his jaw. Petrus bit his lip and pulled back a step. He knew insecurity when he saw it. Part of him wished he could reassure him, explain that he wasn’t confused by the mark, but rather taken aback by something else entirely.

Instead, he elected to introduce himself.

“Bishop Petrus,” he called with forced cheerfulness, all while quietly hating himself for being such a coward. “How divinely fortunate this is! Did you know that I had the honour of meeting you at your uncle’s court when you were a child?”

That earned him a hard gaze, which itself was barely enough to mask the confusion the lad clearly felt in that moment.

Petrus wasn’t entirely sure if he could blame him.

“I would never have imagined you would grow up to resemble the island natives so closely,” he added somewhat lamely when he was met with nothing but silence.

The corners of Adélard’s lips quirked, despite the unrelenting hard stare. “The island was yet to be discovered. How could you have known?”

Petrus laughed at that – he couldn’t help it. That response was clever, unexpectedly so. He’d been caught out so effortlessly, by someone less than half his age who possessed no real experience. Perhaps the boy wasn’t completely misplaced as a diplomat. The prince had surely trained him well in that regard.

“You haven’t lost your clever little tongue,” he chuckled, smiling slightly as more memories came to mind. “You were always quite a remarkable young boy.”

That didn’t garner much of a reaction at all, beyond a shocked stare. Petrus wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, other than perhaps the idea that he didn’t hear such compliments terribly often. Rather than dwell on it, he decided it was time he addressed the reason he’d called after him in the first place.

“I’m on my way to New Sérène as an ambassador to the new governor,” he explained. “Do you think there would be room for me to accompany you? The roads are not truly safe.”

His brow creased in response. “I must first meet with the Mother Cardinal to present my respects on behalf of my cousin-”

“I will accompany you,” Petrus cut across him smoothly. “And then we can take the road together! I am _so_ happy our paths have crossed once again.”

Adélard’s eyes narrowed slightly, but rather than argue, he gave a curt nod and gestured for Petrus to go on ahead of him. Petrus did exactly that, making his way to the waiting flight of cold white marble stairs, glancing up at the ceiling, searching for something he wasn’t entirely sure was there. And yet, her presence suddenly felt unavoidable, pressing in on him from all sides, her breath caressing the back of his neck.

It seemed that no matter what he did, no matter how far he went, the shadow of her would always follow.

Petrus exhaled and kept walking, silently pleading to the Enlightened that this was the beginning of a chance to redeem himself, to finally earn her forgiveness after failing her so completely.

One could only hope.


	2. Chapter 2

Petrus felt his gut clench as Cornelia watched him, a small but triumphant smile etched upon her lips. In that moment, he almost wanted to kick himself – for failing to see the obvious, for not realising that Cornelia had as much on him as he had on her, and wasn’t afraid to use it in retaliation. He should be better than this. Most days, he _was_ better than this. He’d allowed himself to get so caught up in the moment of winning something over Cornelia in one of their countless little power plays that their history had completely slipped his mind.

History he now knew he’d have to pay for, one way or another.

“There goes your charge, Petrus,” Cornelia called to him, almost mockingly, nodding at the doors to the throne room as they were slammed closed with such force that the windows shook. “Best go after him, don’t you think?”

She always found a way to twist even unwinnable situations to her advantage, and always performed at her best when backed into a corner. Petrus had learned that from experience. He’d underestimated her. Somehow, he _always_ managed to underestimate her. Even when he won, she managed to outplay him. That was likely why she was the Mother Cardinal, while he remained a bishop.

It was galling, to realise that.

Petrus took a moment to glower at her before quickly turning on his heels and heading to the door himself, anxious to get to the young man, to explain himself.

“You haven’t won this, Cornelia,” he hissed over his shoulder.

He could almost hear the smirk in her voice as he walked away. “Of _course_ not.”

She had been waiting to use that against him, Petrus knew that now. From the very instant she found out just who the Congregation legate was, he was willing to wager. She had held onto that confession for so long, waiting for precisely the right moment to strike, waiting for the perfect opportunity, careful only to reveal what she knew when she was sure it would cause the most damage. The influence he held over Adélard was dangerous to her, anyone could see that. Whatever she owed Petrus now, she’d taken far more from him simply by sowing distrust between them.

It was a brilliant political move. Made all the sweeter by the fact that she knew it would damage Petrus personally, as well.

He would be impressed by the sheer ruthlessness of it, if he wasn’t already busy silently cursing her name.

_Be damned, Cornelia._

He should’ve said something, before. He should’ve looked the boy in the eyes when they first met all those years ago and told him the truth right then and there. He should’ve saved Arelwin, back when he had the chance. He should have done so many things. He shouldn’t have been a coward. He shouldn’t have let Princess de Sardet’s pleas get to him. He should’ve just given the amulet to him directly, told him where it came from, and _who_ it came from. He never should’ve kept quiet. He never should’ve put his career above his own integrity as a person. He never should’ve told Cornelia the truth about what had happened. Ear of the Enlightened or no, he should’ve known she’d use that against him.

So many regrets. No time to wrestle with them all, however hard he might try.

He walked out of the throne room, carefully waiting until he heard the doors close behind him before immediately breaking out into a run, desperate to catch up with Adélard before he disappeared. Suddenly, Petrus was certain that if he lost him now, he would lose him forever.

If he wasn’t careful, Cornelia would cost him more than simply the lad’s goodwill. Suddenly, he was facing the prospect of losing _her_ – losing the last remnant he had of her, his last chance at earning her forgiveness.

He wouldn’t let Cornelia take that from him. He _couldn_ _’t._

He all but burst from the governor’s palace, wincing a little from the harsh sunlight that hit him without warning. He held a hand up, blinking frantically as he tried to force his eyes to adjust, squinting through the glare just enough to see Adélard at the top of the steps, already slipping from his grasp.

“My child,” he called, almost frantically, quickly making his way over.

At the sound of his voice, Adélard did stop, turning on his heels to face him, lip curled with barely concealed anger.

“You are _not_ my father,” he snarled back, with more hostility than Petrus had previously thought him capable of. “So _stop_ trying to be.”

Petrus stopped dead in his tracks, pulling back slightly with in slight shock as the sheer hostility in his tone.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Petrus said, his voice hardly above a hoarse whisper. “I only-”

“Stop,” he cut across him, low and harsh. “Just, _stop._ Stop talking. Stop trying to justify this.”

“I’m not,” Petrus insisted quietly. “There is nothing I can say to justify my actions, I’m aware of that.”

“Well we’re agreed on _that_ much!”

“But if you would just listen to me-”

 _“Why?”_ he hissed viciously. “Why should I listen to a _single thing_ you have to say? When have you _ever_ given me a reason to trust you?!”

“Adélard-”

“You _lied_ to me!” he all but screamed. “Like _everyone else,_ you _lied._ _”_

“I know I should have told you sooner,” Petrus murmured, not quite sure what else to say in that moment. “And believe me, I wanted to. Even years ago at court, I wanted to. Your mother-”

Adélard let out a shout of laughter at that – far louder than usual and entirely bitter.

“My _mother?_ _”_ he repeatedly incredulously, the venom practically dripping from his tone. “Which mother was that? The one who _lied_ to me my entire _life,_ or the one I never knew I even _had_ until a week or two ago?!”

“I understand this hurt you, but-”

 _“No,”_ he interrupted icily, his knuckles whitening as his hands balled into tight fists. “You _don_ _’t.”_

“Let me try to fix this,” Petrus insisted. “I promise, I won’t rest until we’ve found your family here.”

“You don’t understand, do you?” he shouted, so loudly that some of the palace guards turned their heads towards them, watching them with curious expressions. “This isn’t something you can just _fix,_ Petrus! You can’t just wave it away and pretend like nothing happened! You can’t say that to me and act like it will do _anything_ to change the fact that you _knew_ the truth and _never_ told me!”

Petrus winced. Partly because he was watching someone he saw almost as a son hurl abuse at him. Mostly because in the end, he knew he was right to do so.

In that moment, his mouth ran dry, and he knew there was nothing more he could say.

In that moment, the silence was deafening.

“Are we done?”

The question was quiet, said mostly as a way for him to regain his composure, as Petrus saw his eyes steel and his expression go strangely cold and blank. There was no need for reply, so Petrus didn’t give one, simply waited there, rooted to the spot as the young man turned heel and continued his way down the steps as if the outburst had never happened at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Petrus doubled over, frantically trying to catch his breath. For a moment the three of them stayed precisely where they were, the only real sound being their respective attempts to recover from the exertion. Out of the corner of his eye, Petrus spied the woman, maybe his age or slightly older, collapsed on the ground and clutching her side in pain. She might’ve borne some resemblance to Arelwin, he thought, but it had been so long ago now, and the war paint obscuring her face made it too difficult to truly tell.

As soon as he was able, he straightened, making his way over and offering her his hand. Slán glanced up as he approached, watching him with a cold wariness that really _did_ seem awfully familiar. She didn’t trust them, that was plain enough to see. Petrus wasn’t entirely sure what else he should’ve expected.

And then, to his surprise, she reached out and grasped his hand, letting him help her up as gently as he was able.

“Are you alright, madam?” he asked, just as she pulled herself out of his grasp and stepped back a couple of paces.

For a moment, she said nothing at all, her gaze moving between the two of them, clearly not sure what to make of the situation. In that moment, Petrus couldn’t blame her. She’d watched colonials attack her village and kidnap her sister – she had no reason to trust them. Just because the chief of her clan was open to outsiders didn’t necessarily mean she was, too.

“I…” Slán began quietly, hunching over slightly as she pressed her hands against her abdomen, wincing slightly at the pressure. “I’m… well. Thank you for… ah, stepping in.”

Her voice was quiet, halting, not quite sure of the words she was saying, though whether that was due to her uncertainty about them or simply inexperience with the language she was speaking, Petrus couldn’t truly say. Either was possible. It could have just as well have been both.

“What happened?” Adélard asked, stepping forward. “Why did they attack?”

Petrus fought the urge to sigh. Always the problem solver.

“I… don’t know,” Slán rasped, still clutching her side as she glanced around at the corpses they’d left behind. “These animals usually… accept me. Something- something must have frightened them.”

Almost immediately, Petrus saw Adélard’s eyes narrow, and he immediately began to move away, making his way over to the bodies in order to examine them. Quickly, Petrus reached out and gripped his upper arm, shaking his head just slightly.

“Problems for another day,” he said, never once breaking eye contact as all he got in return was an incredulous stare.

“Petrus-”

“We came here for a reason,” he reminded him gently. “Don’t allow yourself to be distracted.”

In that moment, Petrus sensed that was exactly what Adélard wanted. It seemed that the closer they got to their goal, the more he resisted, and the less he seemed to want to see it through. It seemed that the more the reality of what they were doing dawned on him, the more terrified of it he became.

He wasn’t entirely sure he could blame him.

“Who… are you?”

Petrus blinked, quickly whirling back around to face the woman, only just now realising that he’d completely failed to introduce himself.

“My apologies,” he called softly. “I am Bishop Petrus. I should have introduced myself earlier.”

“One of the suns?”

Petrus tried his best not to stiffen at that; trying to take it more as a simple observation than an outright accusation. The natives had no reason to love Thélème, he knew that. The venom he so frequently heard in their voices when they referred to his people – whether the missionaries or the Ordo Luminis, it didn’t matter – was not completely without justification. And in any case, this was neither the time nor the place in engage in philosophical debate.

So instead, he raised his hands up, in some effort to reassure her that he wasn’t a threat. “It is an entirely different matter that brings me here, I assure you.”

There was a long, pregnant pause at that, as he waited and she watched him like a hawk, carefully taking everything about him in, eyeing him suspiciously as she tried to judge the measure of him right then and there. Petrus winced as he saw it. Arelwin had watched him in much the same way, what felt like a sheer eternity ago now. Suddenly, there was no doubt in his mind that the woman he now found himself facing was her sister.

Eventually, Slán nodded at him, her gaze shifting to his companion, eyes still wary and questioning.

For a moment, there was nothing but dead silence as they waited and Adélard fidgeted, not even bothering to hide just how deeply uncomfortable he’d become.

And then, _finally;_

“I’m-” he began to say, only to immediately cut off, his voice quickly dying in his throat.

Petrus raised an eyebrow at him.

“I- I’m…” he stammered uselessly – something so completely unlike him that in that moment, even Petrus was surprised. “I’m… ah, it- …it doesn’t matter. Tell me, are you- are you Slán? The doneigad of Vígnámrí?”

He sounded so unsure of himself; more like a frightened child than the confident and charismatic young man Petrus had gotten to know these past few months. Slán watched him as well, carefully taking in just about every aspect of his appearance, her impassive expression only changing as she glanced over his face, and seemed to notice the mark there for the first time.

There was a long, almost painfully awkward pause, until;

“You are the renaigse on ol menawí,” she observed. “I have been told of you.”

Adélard flinched back at her use of that phrase, taking a step back as his hand immediately flew to cover his cheek. Petrus frowned slightly at the display, part of him unable to help but wonder if the boy would ever get to a point in his life where he wasn’t constantly in fear of one particular part of himself, if he would ever get to a point where he was genuinely comfortable with himself, with who he was. He had to hope so. After everything that had happened, he was owed that much. Petrus had hoped, perhaps vainly, that finding his biological family would be a stepping stone towards that goal.

Meanwhile, Slán seemed to soften in that moment, evidently seeing this as well.

“Yes,” she admitted slowly, her eyes never wavering from Adélard’s face, solely focused on his cheek. “That’s me. Were you… were you, ah, _looking_ for me?”

He opened his mouth and closed it several times, struggling to find words that never seemed to come. Quickly, Petrus stepped forward, cutting into the conversation as politely as possible in some effort to spare him from the inner turmoil that was clearly on the verge of overwhelming him.

“We were indeed,” he said, moving forwards until he was almost in between them, quickly trying to decide how best to go about telling her everything that had led them both here. “Arelwin was your sister, as I understand it?”

Slán’s eyes immediately grew wide with shock, reeling back in both surprise and fear. Petrus wasn’t entirely sure what else he expected; two strangers appearing out of nowhere to ask about someone who had been kidnapped something like twenty-five years previously would have been shocking to anyone. In that moment, he could only be impressed with just quickly Slán seemed to recover herself.

“She- she was,” she whispered, her voice suddenly very quiet and very hoarse. “Why? You… knew her?”

Petrus nodded – a small, jerky movement as the memories once again threatened to overwhelm him. What should he say? What else _could_ he say? For what must’ve been the first time in years, he found himself truly lost for words. To be here, to be _this_ close, and not have anything to say… it was agonising. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He’d been in politics for decades, widely known for always having something to say, for always knowing the _right_ thing to say. He hadn’t felt like this since…

…since the first time he returned to that dungeon, returned to Arelwin, after meeting a strange little boy in the midst of the prince’s court.

 _I met him,_ he’d said. _I met your son. He_ _’s alive._

He felt a growing lump in his throat as he thought about it, as old emotional wounds that had never really healed opened back up after years of being ignored.

Arelwin hadn’t said anything. He remembered that silence; how it seemed to go on without end. She had simply stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted slightly as she struggled to put together what he’d said. As she struggled to decide whether or not she believed him. Desperately wanting to and at the same time terrified of the pain that knowledge would cause her. She had stared and he had simply stood there, completely at a loss. And the silence – that deathly, utterly brutal silence – went for hours.

He didn’t know why he ever thought this would be any easier.

“She was pregnant when they took her,” he managed finally.

Slán nodded. “With child, yes.”

Petrus let out a long exhale in some vain attempt to relax, before stepping back, gesturing at Adélard, who had remained frozen where he was, eyes wide with sheer terror. “We thought you ought to know that her son survived.”

The world seemed to grind to complete halt then. There wasn’t any other way to describe it – the way everything seemed to freeze around the three of them.

And Slán stared, gaping wordlessly in precisely the same way Arelwin had, all those years ago.

Petrus found that he could see the likeness now.

Slowly, jerkily, Slán moved forwards, one halting step at a time, towards the young man in front of her.

“Oi _ven,_ _”_ she breathed, drawing in close and cupping his face with her hands, her eyes welling up with tears. “What have they _done_ to you?”

Petrus could see him shaking in her grasp, completely beyond words as she gently kissed the crown of his head, before finally pulling him into a tight embrace. For what felt like an eternity, they all remained like that. The rest of the world may as well have stopped existing in that moment. Petrus stepped back slightly, suddenly feeling as though he had no right to be there, encroaching on a deeply personal, private moment that he very much did not belong in.

A deeply personal, private moment that seemed to last for a sheer eternity, before they finally broke apart.

“Come!” Slán called, beckoning Petrus with one hand while taking Adélard’s hand with the other, pulling him back the way they’d come. “We must return, and tell the village.”

She seemed suddenly full of life and energy, leading the two of them, growing impatient when Petrus didn’t move. Quickly, she abandoned Adélard, marching over to Petrus and grabbing him by the arm. Petrus blinked in surprise at the forcefulness of it, stumbling slightly as she pulled him forwards with a surprising amount of strength. Ahead of them, Adélard laughed and walked on ahead.

It was possibly the first time Petrus had heard him genuinely laugh in _weeks._

“Come, old sun,” Slán insisted, as she tugged him along. “Come with me, and tell me of my sister.”

He quickly found himself telling her – telling her _everything._ Even the things he knew she wouldn’t understand. He told her about her sister, about how he’d met her, about his repeated visits to the dungeons just to see her, about his growing infatuation, and eventually, his biggest failure, and greatest shame. He spoke of things he hadn’t uttered since he found himself confessing to Cornelia, all that time ago. And finally, he told her of her nephew, of the person he was, of meeting him at court as a child, of reuniting with him on the island, of his hardships and triumphs, of his unrelenting kindness and compassion, of how much he resembled his mother in both appearance and spirit, and how endlessly _proud_ he was of the young man.

And Slán listened, patiently taking in every word, never saying anything herself, simply allowing Petrus to unload on her without complaint.

And eventually, when he finally trailed off into silence, she spoke.

“You love him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Petrus let out an exhausted sigh. “Like my own.”

“Because he is Arelwin’s?”

“At first, perhaps,” he admitted quietly. “But he is not his mother, no matter how much he resembles her. He is a fine young man on his own merit. I’m lucky to know him.”

There was a distinct pause as Slán took this in.

“He is very…” she began only to almost immediately trail off, trying to find a word and never quite getting there, before letting out a sigh and simply remarking, _“renaigse.”_

Petrus nodded. “He would be. He was raised as royalty, after all.”

“They made him this way,” she said after what felt like far too long, her expression hardening as her voice took on a distinct edge. “Why?”

Petrus didn’t meet her gaze. He couldn’t.

“As a political gambit, I imagine,” he said, wincing slightly at the complete lack of emotion in his tone. “To use him and his heritage to gain a favourable position with your people. That, in turn, would help facilitate a successful colony on the island and allow the Congregation to gain a foothold here that the other nations cannot hope to match.”

It made him feel slightly nauseous as he thought about it. It wasn’t just the sheer ruthless callousness of it – but the fact that it was _brilliant._ The initial risk would have been phenomenal; but Prince d’Orsay had evidently – and correctly – predicted that he could placate the Nauts with offerings of sea-given children to lessen the blow. The alliance was a pittance, and its subsequent loss a small cost to bear compared to the riches of potentially controlling the island. The natives would trust the legate, and through him, they would trust the Congregation. They’d be seen as the reasonable ones, the ones who compromised and listened, while the Bridge Alliance and Thélème both fought to control them. And if they cured the malichor? Prince d’Orsay would have perfectly positioned himself to become the most powerful person on the continent. A plan over twenty years in the making finally coming to fruition.

Maybe, if Petrus had been a worse person, he would applaud it, believing the ends to justify the means. Instead, all he could see was the life that had been completely destroyed in the wake of the Congregation’s ambitions.

He cast his gaze to the ground immediately before him.

Of course the boy had been destroyed by someone else’s ambition. He was, in the end, so much like his mother.

And with that thought, the shame he’d once thought he’d left behind returned, more oppressive than ever before.

Slán didn’t respond however, leaving Petrus to assume she didn’t entirely understand what he’d meant. He opened his mouth to explain, before immediately thinking better of it. She didn’t need to be burdened with that knowledge.

“They made him a weapon.”

Petrus jumped slightly at the sound of her voice, his head snapping up to look at her.

“I… suppose that’s accurate,” he murmured.

He didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t sure there was anything else he _could_ say, as Slán rolled her head back and bore her face to the sky, muttering something in her own language that he didn’t understand.

And then;

“Thank you, man of the light,” she said, inhaling shakily as she straightened. “It is… good to know what happened. I am glad to know him.”

He quickly looked away, unable to bring himself to meet his gaze. “I hardly deserve your thanks.”

“You brought him to me,” Slán reminded him, nodding slightly at the village sprawled out before them. “You brought him to his _home._ For that alone, she would forgive you.”

Petrus exhaled softly at that, part of him feeling strangely lighter at her words, almost in spite of himself. “I’d like to believe that.”

It was strange; this was exactly what he’d wanted, all these years. So why, now that he was faced with finally gaining some kind of redemption, some kind of closure, did he fight it? He’d been holding onto this pain for so long, it had become a part of his being. At this point, it felt like an old friend. He wasn’t sure if he was truly capable of letting it go. In that moment, he wasn’t sure if he even _wanted_ to. She’d been burned into his soul. He couldn’t let her go.

“I shouldn’t keep you,” he managed finally, pulling back a couple steps.

Slán didn’t argue as he moved away, simply nodded at him and continued on, making her way into the village, quickly disappearing behind the wall of bones that surrounded it. Petrus stayed there for a moment, smiling slightly as he heard her shouting something excitedly in the native language – and the cavalcade of shocked voices that immediately followed. Their excitement was almost infectious. Part of him longed to stay, but he knew it wasn’t his place. It never was. It never would be. He’d done enough to the people of this village.

He shook his head and turned right back around, content to simply leave it there. This was enough. This was all he needed. He wouldn’t demand any more.

“You’re leaving?”

At the sound of his voice, Petrus immediately turned on his heels, smiling gently at the young man who stood before him.

“This is your home,” he said softly. “Not mine.”

Adélard’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean you can’t stay.”

Petrus arched an eyebrow at that. “Are you _asking_ me to stay?”

“Would that be a problem?”

“I had thought you no longer cared for my company.”

The corners of his lips twitched with a small, bitter smile at that. “I thought I hated you. But that isn’t true, is it?”

Petrus quickly felt his mouth run dry, at that. “Adélard-”

“You… you’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father, Petrus,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he did so, his eyes glistening with the first sign of tears.

Almost without thinking, Petrus reached out, gripping his arm and pulling him into a tight embrace. He didn’t fight it, closing his eyes and resting his head on Petrus’ shoulder, all while shaking slightly with silent tears. For such a long time, Petrus simply held him, pressed against his chest, saying absolutely nothing.

He could never redeem himself. Not to Arelwin. The past could not be undone. Perhaps part of him knew that, had always known that. Perhaps that was why he had spent so much of his life desperately running from it. But as he stood there, cradling her crying son, he felt something shift, felt a great weight on his soul finally fall away.

The past could not, _would_ not change. All he could do was look to the future.

For the first time in something like twenty years, Petrus knew he could stop. Stop chasing her, stop looking for forgiveness that would never come. Accept his mistakes and move on.

And finally, he let her go.


End file.
